Drunk
by JackOwens1860
Summary: With the GCPD doing their jobs properly, Bruce allows Dick to attend a friend's party. However, upon returning from patrol, Bruce finds Dick climbing in through the kitchen window. Is he drunk? Yeah, pretty much. Bruce's POV
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This story just came to me whilst out running. Upon returning home, I felt compelled to put it down in writing and publish it. Dick comes home drunk for the first time.**

**Drunk**

It is just after two a.m. in Gotham. After seven hours on a continuous patrol of the city's key districts, I am ready to return home. Tonight was uneventful. In total, only seven crimes required my involvement; the remainder could be handled by the GCPD. I noted their response times to emergency calls is almost twenty percent improved, while their patrol cars no longer avoid more poverty-stricken areas. These new considerations have led to a greater public support for the police force and of course Jim Gordon. My confidence in the GCPD is why I have allowed the boy to attend a social party at a friend's house. I am certain, should these improvements stick, that Dick will find himself granted an even greater degree of freedom than he currently enjoys. He deserves it. I enter the car and begin the drive home.

I arrive back at the cave shortly before two-thirty. As expected, Alfred has retired to bed; it would seem the old man shares my faith in the police force, not believing I would suffer significant injuries to warrant insomnia. He is correct. Tonight I have experienced no injuries of any sort. The fact my body has not been subjected to intense trauma or stresses in recent weeks means it has healed. I feel stronger and fresher than I have in months or perhaps...even years. In any case, I no longer ache after a long night. I replace my suit in the armoury alongside my utility belt and change into my pyjamas. I will not be working late tonight. Such a liberty is of great satisfaction to me as I climb the stairs back to the library.

It is strange. As I walk through the library, the darkness does not seem so black and unending as once it did; everything appears lighter, somehow less dreary or morose than I am accustomed to. This too is satisfying. I am about to climb the grand staircase when I hear a thump coming from the kitchen. There is no burglar in this city or any other foolish enough to try and breach the manor's security system. Aside from the array of sensors blanketing the grounds, the closed-circuit camera system within the house and the standard alarm network, this house has me to defend it. Anyone who knows me, either from business or the media is aware of my superior physical attributes; even Bruce Wayne would not be considered a 'soft' target for thieves. Because of this logical reasoning, I am left with limited options as I venture closer to the noise's source. Of those options, only one is immediately credible; the boy has returned from his party and has misplaced his keys. When I turn on the lights, I am proven correct.

Dick's clothes are dishevelled. His pant legs and shoes are covered in mud. He has a slightly glazed look in his eyes. He is rummaging through the medicine drawer. His first reaction to my presence is to freeze. After a brief time, he then turns round to face me, shielding his right hand behind his back. He is swaying ever so slightly. I already know why he is acting this way; however, he feels the need to confirm it with the first words out of his mouth.

"I'm not drunk." His speech is not laboured, but it has hints of slur. It is obvious to me that he is inebriated. It is not severe, his constitution cannot process a significant amount of alcohol, but it is something else. For some reason, I find his current state very funny. Dick has little experience with alcohol, as most fifteen-year-olds should, so he is not aware of how absurd he appears at present. I allow a small smile to cross my lips.

"I see."

"I'm really not. I just...lost...just lost my keys." He explains, patting down his jean pockets to prove their absence.

"Have you cut yourself, Dick?" I inquire drawing nearer to him. The boy shakes his head.

"It's just a scratch. I think I caught it climbing the gate or something." He has yet to show me his injury. When I attempt to force his hand into view by grabbing his wrist, Dick manages to free himself and slide between my legs. He leaves a significant trail of blood in his wake, not to mention dirt. My smile is gone. The boy is remarkably quick to notice this change.

"Sit down. Put your hand on the table."

Dick does not object. He does as instructed, displaying a deep laceration to his right palm that has yet to stop bleeding. I sit down next to him and inspect the wound; he will not be requiring stitches. I settle my gaze on the boy. "Why did you not simply phone me or Alfred to come pick you up? How did you even get here?" I ask whilst applying disinfectant to the cut causing him to wince.

"I ran here."

"Gotham is ten miles from here."

"I know. I just...didn't want to bother you or Alfie."

"I thought we had agreed you would stay at your friend's house overnight. What happened?"

"I dunno. I just wanted to see you." I know he is looking at me even though I am concentrating on bandaging his hand. "I'm honestly not drunk. I was just a little careless getting over the gate; it has those spike things, y'know?" I finish my work. I watch the boy flex his hand for a short while before gesturing to his pants.

"And how do you explain the dirt?"

"I think I took a detour through some woods."

"You think?"

"It was dark."

"Well, it's alright with me. As long as you're not drunk in the slightest." I say with deliberate sarcasm. I do not believe Dick is capable of reading subtlety as he is. The boy shakes his head. He begins making expansive hand gestures.

"Nope. I'm totally fine, big guy." He smiles at me, but his grin is slightly more lop-sided than usual. I have the distinct impression he is hiding something from me. I say nothing. My hard, unconvinced stare talks for me. Dick attempts to stare me out for a few moments before faltering. He sighs; I can smell the combination of vodka and lemonade on his breath.

"At the party, there was this girl..." He begins, pausing to take a deep breath, "and she was really into me. So we...went upstairs to somewhere quiet. And, when she tried to stick her hand down my pants, I freaked out." The boy does not add any further details; he knows I can piece together his journey back here and his current emotions. He was clearly too embarrassed by his behaviour to sleep over or face that girl again so he fled back home. I admit, the situation is far less humorous now I know how it came about.

"It's okay, Dick. These things happen."

"People are gonna think I'm fruity or something."

"I'm sure they won't."

"Yeah they will. I'm gonna get a real stupid nickname and lose all my friends."

"You're being ridiculous."

"Bruce, you don't know what it's like. You just don't know."

"Dick, you're not thinking clearly at the moment. I think it might be best if you go to bed and sleep right now." The boy's reaction to this suggestion is to try and stand up. I stop him by clamping a hand down on the back of his neck. Dick shakes his head.

"I'm not drunk."

"Yes, you are. You just ran ten miles in the dark to get home because you got scared of a girl touching you. I'm fairly certain if you were sober, you wouldn't have done anything nearly as drastic."

"She was hot. I mean, I had a boner and everything..." He trails off seeming to have realized to whom he was speaking. I am stunned he would ever admit anything of the sort to me, drunk or otherwise; teenage boys do not discuss such matters with their fathers, however intimate their relationship. We stare at each other in awkward silence. "Yeah, maybe I should go to bed."

"Please do."

I release my hand from his neck and watch him stand up. He considers leaving without any further conversation. Then he leans down and wraps his arms round me, resting his chin on my shoulder. It is now my turn to sigh in something between pity and frustration. I return his drink-fuelled affections by embracing him too. He is still damp from his impromptu run and smells of cologne, dirt, alcohol and the coppery aroma of blood. It is quite an unpleasant experience hugging him as he is. When he squeezes me tighter, I do not do the same. "I love you." He whispers in my ear, his hot breath not really appreciated. "I love you more than anything else in the whole world, even girls." I decide at that point I have had just about enough of his attentions and prise him off me with little effort.

"Go to bed. You can clean up in the morning."

"You're not gonna let me out again for a while, are you?" He asks leaning on the table.

"No. Go to bed. We'll discuss this in the morning."


	2. Chapter 2

**Aftermath**

It is seven-thirty a.m. on Saturday morning. I am sat at the dining table, reading the paper whilst finishing my coffee. The boy has yet to appear from his bedroom. Alfred has not inquired about Dick's unexpected presence in his room at present. Judging from the look of distaste he displayed after entering the boy's room to open the windows, he is more than aware of what has transpired. The old man has said nothing save for his usual polite conversation. Shortly before I finish the paper's Sudoku puzzle, Alfred reappears in the room.

"I'm not quite finished with my coffee, Alfred." I inform him without looking up. When the old man does not leave, instead drawing closer, I am forced to regard him. I lower the paper. "Yes, Alfred?"

"Sir, I found this in Master Dick's trouser pocket only a few moments ago." Alfred places what looks to be a marijuana cigarette or 'joint' next to my mug. I observe it in silence for a brief moment before placing my newspaper down. I pick it up and smell it. It is definitely marijuana, however it is unused. Curious; Dick did not smell of smoke, nor did his clothes. I consider possible explanations. Then I turn to the old man.

"What is your opinion on the matter, old friend?"

"It is not at all like the young man to engage in such practices, given the respect he has for you."

"For BOTH of us, Alfred; he would not wish to incur your disappointment either."

"Well, Sir, we could speculate on its origin all day. However, I believe the person we should be asking is Master Dick. Shall I attempt to wake him?" Even though the potential implications for the boy are grave, both of us manage to exchange smiles. Despite his professional etiquette and bearing, I am certain Alfred remembers his first experience of alcohol, as do I. We can both find some humour in the situation. This will only work in the boy's favour.

"Was vodka and lemonade your drink of choice as a child, Alfred?" I ask. Alfred shakes his head.

"Such a concoction was unheard of in my youth, Master Bruce. When I was a boy, it was either bitter or lager one partook, never spirits. They were seen as somewhat 'fruity' in my community."

"You remember my first experience with alcohol?" The old man's smile widens.

"You mean your _only_ experience with alcohol, Sir?"

"Yes. How old was I? Eleven?"

"Indeed. As I recall, you drank half a bottle of your father's gin and proceeded to throw up for the next eight hours. Nasty business." Alfred grimaces to emphasize his point. I cannot help but smile further.

"When you went in his room, did you observe any puddles?"

"No, Sir. I imagine the combination of vodka with lemonade is surprisingly agreeable to a fifteen-year-old boy."

"Yes, I'm sure you're right." I say picking my paper back up. "If he's not up by half-past nine, get him up please Alfred? Then we can put this whole matter to bed." Although I do not see it, I know Alfred has bowed just now.

"Very good, Sir."

Amazingly, Dick is able to get himself up and downstairs before nine o'clock. The boy wanders through the dining room on his way to the kitchen, dressed in a bathrobe and slippers. He does not yet look awake in spite of the shower. I am about to call him when he re-enters the dining room with a sloppily-made peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the jelly oozing from the corners like some sort of crushed insect. He puts the plate down first before taking a seat opposite me.

"Hey." The boy says in a languid tone of voice before making a half of the sandwich vanish. He looks up at me, his green eyes devoid of guilt or embarrassment. "What you doing up so early?" I watch him brush still-wet hair from his eyes before answering.

"I could ask you the same thing." Dick offers up an expression that is half-puzzled and half-blank. He takes another bite.

"I got a headache. I got up to take some aspirin." He indicates the sandwich, "It goes down better with food." It is now clear from the relaxed manner in which he just spoke that he does not recall last night in any detail; Dick is not a good-enough actor to fake amnesia.

"Can you explain this?" I inquire bringing the cigarette into his field of vision. The boy regards it briefly.

"What are you doing with that? You're not gonna smoke it are you?" He replies finishing his sandwich. It is unclear whether he is being facetious on purpose or not; he does seem in the right mood to make jokes.

"Alfred found it in the pants you were wearing last night." I say trying to prompt him into confessing. Dick shrugs his shoulders.

"I don't remember last night, Bruce. I remember going to the party, having some mixers and sort of running back here, but nothing else. Did we talk last night?" He asks. His expression is of someone who is trying desperately to recall something they may never have heard to begin with. I shrug my shoulders.

"I would not call it a conversation, but we did talk somewhat."

"I didn't say anything embarrassing, did I?"

"What do you think?" The boy knows his character very well, both its strengths and flaws; immediately he knows he must have said many embarrassing things. He puts his head in his hands and sighs.

"Do I even want to know?"

"I'd rather not repeat some of your more memorable statements."

"And this thing?" Dick displays his still bandaged hand to me. The gauze is now saturated with both blood and water from his shower.

"You said you cut it on the gate's iron spikes when climbing over them."

There is a short silence in which the boy puffs out his cheeks before placing his hands on top of his head. "I'm grounded, aren't I?"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"A week...for now."

"I really don't know where the weed came from, Bruce, honest."

"Irrelevant. You should not have it in your possession to begin with."

"But I was drunk..."

"No excuses, Dick. I think I'm being generous in only giving you a week's restriction; I could easily advocate more."

The boy opens his mouth to argue again, but thinks better of it. He knows I am not being overly harsh or severe with him or his punishment; I am a fair parent. Dick is aware I demand higher standards of conduct from him only because I expect so from myself. Because it is his first time in any kind of actual trouble – pertaining to a domestic environment – I have been lenient. Next time will be a very different story. The boy gives me a sheepish smile and nods.

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"Good. You left a horrible mess in the kitchen last night. Your first task is to clean it. You will then spend the rest of the weekend assisting Alfred with household chores. You will stay in the house when returning from school next week. Patrol duties are off-limits until next weekend. Understand?"

Dick nods, but looks bitter about the whole affair. I told him to be sensible with his alcohol intake and I told him not to do anything reckless or stupid. He assured me he could act accordingly. He failed in this effort. I know as a teenager that the boy will make mistakes. I do not punish mistakes of youth; I punish mistakes that stem from disregarding simple rules and instructions. I feel I have been diplomatic enough in the situation. Dick gets up to leave. As he rounds the table with his plate, I take a gentle grip on his arm. He looks at me with some surprise.

"I'm only doing this because I care about you." The boy nods.

"I know."

"Do you?" Dick rolls his eyes at my insistence. He does not believe me.

"Yeah. Here's your reward for being a good dad." He offers sarcastically before bending down and kissing me on the cheek. I let his arm go. We stare at each other distastefully.

"Go clean up the kitchen."

"Sure thing, Boss."


	3. Chapter 3

**Drunk 3**

**Author's Note: Variation on a similar theme: Bruce comes back from patrol to find Jason drunk in the cave. Enjoy.**

I am in Crime Alley. It is close to two in the morning and I have formally concluded operations for the evening. Jason did not accompany me on patrol due to a conflict of opinions. It is better that we keep our distance at present; conversations between us cannot survive more than five minutes before dissolving into argument and it is becoming tiresome for both of us. I am glad of the break; it gives me time to reflect. Tonight's patrol was routine and played out as I had expected. I personally put fifteen criminals into police custody and halted seventeen individual crimes in a six-hour period, a new record I believe. Now I am here to pay my respects. Tonight is the anniversary of my parents' deaths and I have been unable to lay down my customary roses to mark the occasion. It was upsetting not to be able to get here in the daytime as Bruce Wayne due to domestic problems, but I am glad to arrive here at all.

The alleyway is quiet and the air is still as I stand looking at the very spot that my mother and father bled to death. The bloodstain is still here, disappearing further and further into the filth and decay around it with each passing year, but is still visible to me. As I stand here, I find myself wondering how Jason feels about his own parents' deaths. It is likely he does not recall the date or the time he lost his mother to cancer or his father to an assassin's bullet. It is not normal behaviour to remember such insignificant details of such a traumatic event and I do not blame him for burying them deep. My parents would expect me to try and be more understanding in the current situation, especially when the individual is as traumatised as Jason. It is not just losing his parents he has suffered through as I like to tell myself so we have common ground, it is also the sexual abuse and physical abuse he has forced himself to endure and survive. His anger issues come from never dealing with his past and I should be more sensitive. I have always known this but considered it to be counterproductive with someone as hard as the boy. I begin to realise, too late I fear, that I was mistaken.

I return to the cave immediately.

When I arrive I am determined to try and make amends between us tomorrow morning. I turn around the car and replace my suit and equipment in the armoury. After changing into civilian dress, I head for the staircase only to hear the sound of metal hitting stone emanating from the practice area. The noise repeats itself a dozen or so times as I draw nearer. I eventually see Jason throwing batarangs against the painted targets on the rock face in front of him. He is dressed in his Robin outfit and curiously has an empty bottle on the floor beside him. I have never witnessed the boy engaged in such odd behaviour at this late an hour and am concerned I know why.

"Jason?"

The boy turns round and glares at me. He is not wearing his mask and I see the dull, glazed expression in his eyes that means he is fairly drunk. I gesture to the bottle on the floor. Jason follows my finger and stoops down to retrieve it. His movements are slow, but surprisingly steady. He tosses the bottle to me. I catch it by the neck and turn it so I can read the label. It is a seven hundred and fifty millilitre helping of aged American bourbon, the exact same brand as my father used to drink and is now kept under lock and key in the cellar with my mother's wine collection. I am momentarily speechless as my mind processes exactly what has transpired in my absence. Jason has broken into the cellar and helped himself to alcohol. Where was Alfred while this was taking place? How long has he been drinking and what else has he done?

"What have you been doing tonight?" I ask, mindful that the boy has a stack of very lethal projectiles by his feet and looks very spiteful. Jason shrugs.

"Nothing much. Just practicing my aim." He explains coherently enough before picking up another batarang and turning back to the targets. I watch in silence as he sticks it just right of absolute centre. An ordinary fifteen-year-old would have placed themselves in a coma or needed a stomach pump if they had consumed as much alcohol as Jason just had. They certainly would not be capable of holding a conversation or completing a complicated hand-eye co-ordinated action to that standard. It would appear he also has heavy experience with alcohol misuse as well as everything else.

"I see. Is there any reason you needed this?" I say holding out the bottle. Jason picks up another projectile and shrugs yet again.

"Well I started with the idea of killing myself, but when I finished the whole thing I decided to just practice my aim. I wanted to surprise you." He flings the batarang haphazardly and without a great degree of concentration. It slams straight into the centre of the target. He turns to look at me, "Ta dah. What do you think?" I do not know how best to tackle this situation. I stand still and look at him for several minutes in silence. Jason nods in something like understanding before sending the pile of batarangs skittering across the floor with his foot. He then begins staggering towards the staircase. I chase after him.

"Jason, please wait." I call as he begins to ascend the stairs. He turns and almost trips over his own feet. I catch him before he can injure himself. He smells of nothing but bourbon; he did not even try to mix it. "Are you alright?" I ask as I hold him in my arms.

"I don't need you. Just put me down and leave me alone." He tells me bitterly. I let his feet touch the ground again but do not release him from my grip.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" I ask him whilst stroking his hair.

"Because I hate you and want to die. Just leave me alone in the kitchen for five minutes and I'll slit my wrists. I won't make too much mess, promise." The boy's voice is not unsteady or displaying any real emotion beyond resentment. It is terrifying to think he can be so dark when inebriated considering he already possesses a very black sense of humour. He clearly needs to sleep this off. Perhaps he would be more predisposed to explain himself in the morning.

"Let's get you to bed." I say only to be violently shoved off. Jason loses his balance and falls hard from the few steps he has managed to climb to the stone below. He does not even moan after the impact and again forces himself to his feet. One of his knees has been lacerated in the fall and is now bleeding profusely; he does not notice and turns to climb the stairs again. This time I forcibly lock my arms round his waist and hoist him clean off the ground, holding him near my shoulder height to ensure he has no leverage to break my grip. He thrashes for a few moments before tiring and sighs.

"Just stop trying Bruce. I will NEVER like you, never." He tells me bluntly. I bring him down so he is now against my chest and then slowly back to the ground. I spin him round and hold him by both shoulders so he has to look at me.

"You are going to bed. We will discuss this in the morning when you can hold a coherent conversation." I cradle carry him to the library before switching to a shoulder carry for the remainder of the trip through the house. He mutters spiteful and crude things at me throughout the journey from the cave and even attempted to leap from my arms when we reached the summit of the staircase in the cave. I held firm barely. When we reach his room, I try to put him straight into bed only to encounter yet more stern resistance. He shoves me off again when I put him on the bed and tries to leave the room. I stand in front of it to deter him. By now his knee and lower leg are stained with both fresh and drying blood and giving him considerable trouble with his mobility. He hobbles and staggers from the door to the window. I am again forced to bar his path. He glares at me.

"You're a fucking asshole." He spits before reluctantly heading for his bed.

"I need to treat your knee before it becomes infected."

"Touch me and I'll fucking bite you." He tells me whilst pulling back the bed sheets. He then apparently suffers a complete loss of equilibrium and collapses on his back with a thud. I draw over to his side and watch as he turns away from me and proceeds to vomit on the carpet. The stench is raw and somewhat overpowering in its pungency. Just the smell seems to cause the boy to retch and vomit again. I pull him up and drag him to the toilet bowl where he throws up the last of his stomach contents and slumps down with his head on the rim. Now the carpet is saturated with vomit and the bathroom floor is streaked with blood. I make a note of the cost as Jason forces his head off the toilet bowl to regard me, still with spite. "Just fuck off before I hurt you." He snaps spitting the last trace of vomit on the floor beside me. It is highly unlikely he can do anything in his current condition beyond empty threats but I am still cautious.

"You need to change clothes and have your injury treated before I will go anywhere. Now can you stand and do those things yourself or not?" I ask already knowing the answer. Jason tries to mount a vertical base but cannot even push his hands off the floor.

"Get Al to do it. I don't want you."

"Alfred is sleeping. I am here to help. Now I am going to touch you and you are going to let me. If you don't I will force the issue."

"Touch me and…" I smack him smartly across the face to prove I am both serious and in no mood for games. It is unfortunate that I have had to resort to such methods but I see no alternative. The strike will not cause any damage and is intended to sting rather than cause lasting pain. Jason adopts a startled expression before nodding, "Okay fine."

I clean and dress him without further dramatics. I also disinfect, clean and bandage his wounded knee without any fanfare. He maintains eye contact with me throughout all this despite his condition until it is disturbing. When I finally put him in bed, it is almost four a.m. "You will have to clean your room later today." I inform him although I am aware now he will probably not remember what I have said. He nods but it is instinctive rather than reactive.

"Sorry about all this." He mumbles now with his eyes closed, "I just can't control myself sometimes. Sometimes I just can't stop myself."

"I have come to realise that. We shall speak later. Goodnight Jason."

"Night-night."

When I wake up around eleven-thirty, I am in a sour mood. I shower, shave and put on my dressing gown before heading downstairs into the kitchen. Alfred is already preparing my usual breakfast of scrambled egg whites and wholegrain toast when I enter the room. Before I can open my mouth, Alfred starts the conversation I had intended to have with him for me.

"If you wish to know how the young man gained access to the cellar, I am afraid I will assume responsibility. I was not aware the key was missing until I was retiring to bed the other night. I did of course make a brief check of the inventory and secure the room with another padlock but found my age has unfortunately caught up with me. I thought your father only had four bottles of aged bourbon when of course I forgot of the spare bottle he kept near the champagnes. Your mother never did approve. When I checked again this morning, I found it absent as you well know. I have already been to Master Jason's room and discovered the extent to which my error has cost me. I can only apologize profusely for my misjudgements in the situation." He turns from his pan to face me, "Tell me how you would like to proceed Sir. I am more than willing to tender my…" I hold up a hand to stop him completing such an unthinkable suggestion. I am still angry but no longer vengeful and I forget just how long Alfred has been perfect.

"That will not be necessary, old friend. After all these decades of service I would have expected more than one slip of you but this is the first and I am certain it will be the last as well. We will say no more about the issue. My main concern here is the boy. What can we do?" The old man turns off the stove and empties the egg whites onto a plate.

"What were your intentions to do about the situation this morning Sir?" He asks whilst placing the pan into the sink for washing. I am loath telling him as he has strongly disapproved of this particular method many times before now. But I tell him anyway because he deserves honesty.

"I was going to ground him for two months and remove his privileges, including accompanying me on patrol and his other duties as Robin." Alfred nods in agreement but I sense he is not convinced I am on the right track. This is confirmed with his reply.

"That would certainly be an acceptable punishment for any other boy in this situation."

"But not Jason?"

"No Sir, not for Master Jason. The lad is not like any other child I have encountered in my time. The suffering he has endured in this city and the manner in which his innocence has been repeatedly stripped away by its cruelty has made him very emotionally unstable and stunted at the same time. His training and time as Robin have been beneficial but ultimately detrimental to his health and mental well-being. Your continued negativity towards his outlets for self-expression and release as well as continued focus on his weaknesses as your partner has also damaged him. You have made him go deeper into himself and mount higher defences against his feelings to stay capable of performing on the streets. He is, in short, desperately in need of some understanding and slackening of your hangman's noose; you're choking him Master Bruce and you must stop at once."

"You want me to ignore his discretions against the rules of this house and his criminal behaviour in breaching those rules?"

"No Sir, but I do want you to overlook a punishment for them. He will be expecting scorn. You need to talk to him calmly and let him tell you what is wrong. It is the only way I think you will ever get along with him now."

When I approach Jason's room shortly after midday, I have decided to go with Alfred's approach in tackling this matter. I am now dressed as I knock on the door and prepare to a different tact for dealing with a familiar problem. I hear groans that tell me he is stirring and I let myself in. I find him face-down in bed and trying to move stiff and sore limbs in an attempt to turn himself round.

"Is that you Al?" The boy mumbles in a barely coherent or intelligible voice.

"No Jason, it's Bruce." I watch him stop trying to move and just lie still. I hear him sigh.

"How long for?" He asks, obviously anticipating my wrath to come down on him at this point. I shake my head.

"You are not being grounded Jason, nor am I removing your privileges either." I hear him snigger.

"This is a weird dream I'm having right now." He says whilst turning on his side, "I like it." I cross the room and gently shake his shoulder. His head jerks round with surprising speed and he jumps when his bleary eyes catch sight of me. "Jesus Fucking Christ! What are you doing here?" He says before attempting to get away only to fail and fall back against the pillows. I sit on the side of his bed.

"I want to have a talk if that's alright."

"You mean shouting?" He says through the pillow.

"No, I mean talking. Please talk to me." He groans before forcing his head over to look at me. The boy looks less than thrilled about the offer but nods once.

"Okay fine. Let me start: I'm naked under here so I'd appreciate some more distance." He says.

"Well, unfortunately I need to see your leg to make sure it hasn't worsened. Either put some underwear on or cover your crotch." I respond only for the boy to frown at me.

"What did I do to it?"

"You cut it open on the cave floor this morning. I cleaned it up but it needs re-examining. Do you really mind that much if I see you naked?" He glares at me as if insulted.

"I'm fifteen years old and male: what do you think? Maybe you're used to flashing yours for the ladies or Alfred's amusement, but I'm not quite the exhibitionist I once was. So can you please hand me some underwear before I start charging you for peeks?" It is astounding how quickly Jason can find his tongue in the morning, especially after incidents like this. It is further proof that life on the streets gifts those individuals amazingly sharp wits and even better defence mechanisms. I oblige him and hand over a fresh pair of boxers from his drawers. He fumbles with them beneath the covers for almost three minutes before claiming he's suitable for viewing. I pull back the covers and find he has indeed made himself decent although the underwear is rather tight. I gesture for him to turn onto his back which he does with some difficulty.

"Oh shit." Jason moans when seeing the bandage on his knee and the blood-red colour it has turned overnight. "I really hit the ground hard huh?"

"You're fine. You just need your dressings replaced. How's your head?"

"Fine. It feels a little clotted but I'm fine. Look, are you really pissed? I'm so hung-over right now I can't really tell."

"I'm fairly displeased with your antics, but am not too angry to forgive you. That is if you give me an apology." I say looking from his leg to his face; his expression is troubled.

"Do you really mean that?"

"I do. So?" I wait expectantly for his reply. He looks at me with real confusion and seems to think I am attempting to trick him in some way. I put my hand on his shoulder. "So?" I repeat whilst offering a gentle squeeze. He gives me a sheepish smile.

"I'm really sorry. Sometimes…"

"You just can't control yourself?" I say to finish the opinion he shared with me earlier. He nods and I see the prelude to tears forming in his eyes.

"I'm really sorry Bruce. I am." His voice is quivering a little and I sense this may be because he remembers the reason why he commenced drinking in the first place: he said he wanted to commit suicide. I nod my head in understanding.

"I know you are Jason." I tell him whilst bringing my hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck. "I know you are." I embrace him in a display of support and he does not resist me. I ruffle his hair affectionately. "I'm sorry you felt you had no other alternative." I feel Jason's arms coil round my back and squeeze me to show my efforts are appreciated. He does not say anything, but I do not feel like he needs to say anymore on the matter. He is fragile at present and I am not. I am mindful of that as I squeeze him back. "You're not a bad person Jason. I still love you as much as I ever did." Normally the boy would scoff derivatively at such a comment, but he is not in an attacking mood anymore.

"Thanks for saying that big guy." He replies sounding like he has collected himself. I release him when he shifts his weight away from me and see he is no longer in danger of crying. He laughs briefly and shakes his head.

"Jeez, sometimes I'm a real girl huh?" He says. I point to the mess on the carpet.

"Girls do not vomit like that Jason." He follows my finger, sees the vomit for himself and nods in agreement. He smirks at me and I smile back. It is a rare light-hearted moment in our relationship at this time. I regret we have not been able to share more.

"No they don't. I'll clean it up."

"You've got a blood-stained bathroom to scrub too. You've got an hour and then I expect you down for lunch."


End file.
